


Sacred Bond

by yet_intrepid



Series: the bright sword [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Secret Relationship, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 08:44:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5490965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yet_intrepid/pseuds/yet_intrepid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another beep, then a welcome voice. “This is Boromir. Meet you at duct eight-seven-one in fifteen?”</p>
<p>“Fifteen, copy that,” says Faramir. He shoves the comlink into his tunic and starts out of the room, three different excuses already forming in the back of his head in case he’s caught.</p>
<p>The Temple halls are mostly clear and he walks openly until he reaches the air duct he’s accustomed to using to get out. Then he waits, feeling with the Force for any approaching lifeforms, until he’s sure he won’t be seen. Opening the duct, he climbs in and starts down the ladder to the exit where Boromir waits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sacred Bond

**Author's Note:**

> With apologies to canon Forlong, who is almost definitely not this much of a dick. But it's almost impossible for me to imagine Faramir in a universe where he's grown up with NO ONE being a dick to him, and Denethor does other things in this AU that haven't come up in this particular fic.

It’s hard to meditate, Faramir thinks again, when he is hungry. When he’s cold. When his legs cramp from sitting for hours in the same position, trying to Force-lift a pile of tiny crisscrossed steel rods without disturbing them when he sets them down. Every time they move, they buzz, and Faramir knows the contraption is keeping a record of his failures for Master Forlong.

His stomach growls again, mid-lift. Faramir grits his teeth and focuses harder. It will be like this in the field, he reminds himself. Master Forlong always says it: on mission, you will be hungry and cold. You will risk your life. And you must not lose your ability to use the Force because a few lasers are flying past your head.

The contraption buzzes again.

Faramir lowers his head into his hands, breathes for a moment, and tries to center himself. But when he looks inwards, he can’t feel the Force. All he feels is a swirling mess of emotions—shame, fear, anger.

You opened yourself up to this, says a voice inside him, one he cannot name. When you formed an attachment to Boromir, you forsook the path of peace.

Faramir ignores the thought and concentrates on the little rods, reciting the Code in his head.

_There is no emotion; there is peace._ He closes his eyes. He can feel the rods, but it’s like they’re vibrating, flinching away from him. Foolish games, Master Forlong would say.

_There is no ignorance; there is knowledge._ If there is no ignorance, why can’t he do this? Is he just not trying hard enough? Or perhaps he has not even willed to do it.

_There is no passion; there is serenity._ I will to be serene, Faramir thinks. He lifts the rods and they buzz immediately, crashing back to the floor in front of his crossed legs. I will to be serene. They fall again. And again.

_There is no chaos; there is harmony._ He’s certainly not in harmony with this task. Or with Master Forlong, for that matter, and he doesn’t know what’s wrong with him because he wants to be, and he’s trying, but he still isn’t. Everything is still a mess.

_There is no death. There is the Force._

He gets to the end and is about to start over ( _there is no emotion_ ) when the door slides open. Not startled, but scared—although he tells himself not to be—Faramir drops the rods again and they buzz louder than ever.

He gets up, then, and turns around. “Hello, Master,” he says.

Master Forlong grunts. “How many times?” he asks.

“Master?” asks Faramir.

“How many times did you fail?”

Faramir glances back at the rods on the floor. “I—don’t know,” he admits. “I wasn’t thinking about—”

“And do you think,” says Master Forlong, “that this constant lack of thought befits a Jedi?”

Faramir opens his mouth to defend himself, to say that he was trying to concentrate on the task, but he has learned that such attempts are useless. “No,” he says, after a moment. “No, Master.”

Master Forlong shakes his head. Closing his eyes, holding out his hand, he begins to lift the pile of rods, setting them down in various places and turning them in the air. Faramir half-watches, but his eyes keep returning to the floor.

Time lapses. Master Forlong keeps demonstrating his abilities, and Faramir begins to wonder if he has been forgotten. Eventually, he shifts and clears his throat.

“Master?” he asks. “May I join the other padawans for the evening meal?”

Master Forlong looks at him then, one eyebrow lifted. “I think not, apprentice,” he says. “You would do better to spend the time improving your perspective on life.”

\----

When Faramir finally finishes the last of his assigned tasks, he looks carefully around the rest of the quarters he shares with his master. No one is there, so Faramir slips out the comlink he keeps hidden in his tiny room. It beeps.

“Boromir?” he says. “Boromir, come in.”

Another beep, then a welcome voice. “This is Boromir. Meet you at duct eight-seven-one in fifteen?”

“Fifteen, copy that,” says Faramir. He shoves the comlink into his tunic and starts out of the room, three different excuses already forming in the back of his head in case he’s caught.

The Temple halls are mostly clear and he walks openly until he reaches the air duct he’s accustomed to using to get out. Then he waits, feeling with the Force for any approaching lifeforms, until he’s sure he won’t be seen. Opening the duct, he climbs in and starts down the ladder to the exit where Boromir waits.

He’s a little early, which means hanging out inside the duct as he waits for his brother’s speeder to circle by. But before he’s counted out two minutes, it does. Faramir opens the door to the duct and jumps out, landing securely behind Boromir.

Boromir laughs. “Hey, kid,” he says, as he swoops away from the Temple. “You’re getting faster!”

“Or you’re getting slow!” Faramir takes in a deep breath of sharp air as they swirl through traffic. “Where are we going?”

“I thought we’d visit a diner,” Boromir calls over the wind. “You hungry?”

“Yeah,” says Faramir, and it’s strange to admit it.  Strange to be asked. But blast it, he really is hungry.

“Good,” says Boromir. “Cause I’m about to feed you.”

The speeder dips wildly, swinging under a large transport. Faramir echoes Boromir’s laughter, and they rush down six levels of traffic to land in front of a dirty-looking diner.

“It doesn’t look like much, I know,” says Boromir, “but it’s amazing.”

They go in. Boromir jokes with the servers and asks for a corner booth. Sitting across from each other, they flip through menus on datapads and smile at each other.

Faramir feels he could happily die in an asteroid field, smashed to pieces. He has a _brother_. It’s been two months since he discovered it, and every day has grown less lonely. Every day he has grown more attached, and every day has presented new questions.

The server comes back to take their order and Boromir gives Faramir reams of advice, too much of it. Faramir laughs and hesitates and eventually grows hungry enough to just settle on something.

“Good choice,” Boromir tells him, when the server goes off on three orange legs to bring their request to the kitchen. “I mean, it’s all good here. But that’s particularly good.”

And Faramir is amazed, over and over, because he has never heard such words, has never floundered in a decision without receiving an accompanying lesson.

They eat together. They trade stories, Boromir of his life as a Apprentice Legislator and Faramir of his studies at the Temple. There is not much to tell, on Faramir’s part; these two months have been between missions for Master Forlong, and Faramir spends them with drills and lore. Halfway through Boromir’s story of observing a Senate debate, however, Faramir goes still.

Boromir bends over his glass of water and whispers, “What is it?”

Faramir does the same. “Behind you. A Jedi.”

Boromir, thank the Force, is smart enough not to turn around. Faramir watches the Jedi from the corner of his eye: human, middling-dark skin, messy dark hair. Lightsaber at his belt. He’s not anyone Faramir has seen before at the temple.

Boromir has picked up his story again, but breaks it off to sip at his water and make eye contact with Faramir. “Should we go?” he whispers.

The Jedi is between them and the exit. “Is there another door?”

Boromir nods. “Hang on, let me pay.”

He waves down the server and gets up for a moment to speak with her. When he does, Faramir tries to glance back subtly at the Jedi and finds a pair of keen eyes meeting his.

He looks away rapidly, and is grateful when Boromir comes back between them, talking and laughing and hurrying Faramir out.

\----

It’s already dark when Faramir comes back to the rooms he shares with Master Forlong, excuses ready on his tongue. But although Master Forlong is waiting, he does not ask Faramir where he has been.

“Change your robes,” he says, instead, when Faramir slips in the door. “We’re going before the Council.”

Faramir’s eyes widen. “The Council?”

But Master Forlong neither repeats nor explains. Faramir feels cold again as he hurries to put on a clean tunic and robe—Master Forlong keeps the quarters at a low temperature due to his fur, but the shivers Faramir feels now need more than a thermostat adjustment.

Force, he thinks, as he considers re-braiding his padawan braid but decides there is no time. Force, they’ve found out. He’s going to be dismissed from the Order.

“The Council does not tolerate delay,” calls Master Forlong, and Faramir tries to calm down. Tells himself that he can figure this out, that somehow he can make a life outside the Order. That Boromir will help him.

He steps out of his room, knowing distress radiates from him through the Force. But Master Forlong doesn’t comment. Instead, he simply picks up his robe, puts it on, and leads the way into the corridor.

Faramir follows a half-pace behind. They’ll cut off my braid, he thinks; they’ll have to if they dismiss me, right? He thinks of Master Forlong’s lightsaber near his face; he thinks of all his work coming to nothing. He thinks of meeting people he’s trained with in the street and being ashamed, because he never knew anyone who was kicked out before. Never knew anyone the Jedi wouldn’t keep.

Master Galadriel greets them at the door, her white robes gleaming in the early moonlight that streams through the windows. Faramir stays halfway behind Master Forlong. He is afraid, and ashamed of it, for he has heard too many times where fear leads.

“Master Forlong,” says Master Saruman. Master Forlong bows in answer, and Faramir copies him. Master Saruman goes on. “You notified the council three weeks ago with a request to sever the sacred bond between master and padawan. Although you explained thoroughly in your initial request, which we have considered with all due solemnity, and although I am sure you have raised the issue with Padawan Faramir, the Council requests that you summarize your case for incompatibility.”

Incompatibility? Faramir blinks, surprised. Maybe he hasn’t been caught after all, he thinks, and relief wells up—but then, just as quickly, it fades again. Whether or not they know about Boromir, the words _sever the sacred bond_ will still leave him abandoned.

“Padawan Faramir is unteachable,” Master Forlong is saying. “As you know, I am far from new to the training of apprentices. My previous two padawans have both gone on to be well-respected in the Temple and throughout the galaxy. Padawan Faramir, however, refuses to bend his will to the tasks he is assigned.”

Master Gandalf hems and haws a bit. “Padawan Faramir,” he says, “is this incompatibility mutual?”

Faramir freezes. He’s not supposed to contradict his master, surely—but he wants to stay. He doesn’t want to be expelled from the Temple; he doesn’t know what he’d do. “I know I don’t learn very fast,” he says, after a long pause. “I want to keep training, but I have no desire to burden Master Forlong.”

The Council members look at one another.

“We are inclined to grant the release, Master Forlong,” says Master Galadriel. “But there is the question of the boy’s future. He could enter the Service Corps, of course, but having passed the Initiate Trials…”

“Passing the Trials does not guarantee being chosen by a Master,” says Master Saruman. “Or, in this case, kept.”

Faramir swallows, the reality sinking home. Master Forlong doesn’t want him. Thinks he’s unteachable. Give me a chance, Faramir wants to say; I’ll do better. I’ll bend my will to whatever you say.

The door slides open suddenly.

“Knight Aragorn,” says Master Saruman, “we are not yet ready for your report.”

Faramir turns. It’s the man from the diner earlier that evening, hair still messy and robes still in disarray. When he makes eye contact with Faramir, the Force thrums with mutual recognition.

“My apologies, masters,” says Knight Aragorn. “But I’m not here to report. I came in because I heard your deliberation.”

“Oh?” says Master Gandalf. He looks intrigued.

“Master Gandalf has been urging me to take on a padawan of my own.” Knight Aragorn looks at Faramir, and Faramir backs up a step. It’s unnerving, Faramir thinks, the way Knight Aragorn really seems to _see_ him. Like he doesn’t just know that Faramir sneaks out, but how and why. Like he knows him.

Like they have a sacred bond.

“Don’t send him to the Service Corps,” says Knight Aragorn. “I’ll train him.”

Faramir wonders how he can be so unnerved and so afraid and yet, at the same time, so hopeful.

There is no emotion, he tells himself; there is peace.


End file.
